


time is everything, time is nothing, time is ours

by hihoplastic



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: “Really? An end of the world battle and you didn’t call me? I’m insulted, sweetie.”Her voice is a surge of oxygen, sunlight and joy. The Doctor can’t help the smile the splits her cheeks—there’s recognition in River’s voice, fondness and devotion and worry, always, but determination, too.
Relationships: Future Doctor/River Song, The Doctor/River Song
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	time is everything, time is nothing, time is ours

**Author's Note:**

> \- based on [steven moffat's dream final episode](https://amillionmillionvoices.tumblr.com/post/616839633636114432) this is canon fight me  
> \- also [here](https://amillionmillionvoices.tumblr.com/post/617134024653258752/i-couldnt-stop-myself-riverdoctor-fic-based-on) on tumblr

She’s been dying for weeks. 

Slowly, painfully, using the last of her regeneration energy to stave off death. For good, this time—her last body, last go around. She supposes it’s fitting, that her final hours would be spent trying, once again, to defeat _them_. It makes her a bit sour, if she thinks about it too long—there are so many things she’d rather be doing, people she’d rather be with—but she can’t leave. Not now. Not when this little planet needs her, and, she supposes, if she’s going to die for good she wants to die the way she’s always lived—saving the universe. 

_Being an idiot_ , the voice in her head says, one that still, after so many lives, sounds suspiciously like her wife. 

The Doctor smirks to herself, and tries to avoid the screeching behind her, the door that won’t hold much longer. She tries to tune out their cries, familiar and robotic, with that hint of frenzy she’s never quite understood. 

She understands it now. Their desperation. 

The Dalek fleet is the last of its kind—the rest, destroyed in this grand battle, the one she’s been waging—leading—for years. _The Doctor’s Last Stand_ , they’re calling it. It sounds far too dramatic for her tastes, but it’s not entirely off point. She’ll die here, she knows—on this Dalek ship, by Dalek weapons, alone. 

It’s for the best, really. 

The people fighting down below, they’re counting on her. Not to destroy the ship—no, that would be too easy, or perhaps, too hard, she isn’t sure which. No, the plan is much more ridiculous, much more her style. The Captain of the army had called it _ludicrous_. 

She likes that a bit. 

Behind her, sparks fly as the Daleks burn down the door, and she knows she has so little time left. 

Typing quickly, she does her best to ignore the searing pain in her side, the pounding in her head she’s felt for days. Everything hurts with the effort of _not dying_ , and there’s no regeneration energy left to pull at her skin. But she has to try. Has to give just one more thing to the universe, and pray that it works. 

Yanking out wires and entering codes, the Doctor finally manages to find what she’s looking for—access to the hive mind. Clara had found it once, when she was an echo, and the idea has lingered so long, just out of reach. There’s no way to destroy them all—she’s tried that before, and always failed. She’s tried deleting herself, but they always remember. She’s tried time locks and explosions and everything else, and they always come back.

This time, she’s trying something new. This time, she’s going to _change_ them. 

Groaning when she finds the slippery entrails, Dalek bits that writhe and slither, the Doctor keys in the last few commands, and takes a deep breath. 

_Geronimo,_ she thinks, from somewhere in her memory, and smiles, and plunges her hand into the mainframe. It’s frankly disgusting, and she makes what she’s certain is a horrible face, but it’s only a moment before the Daleks realize she’s there, in their heads, and they scream. Scream, and fight, and the Doctor slams her eyes shut and tries to breathe. 

She’s always thought about giving the Daleks a piece of her mind, she just never meant literally. 

But she can feel it, feel their anger and their hatred, feel everything they abhor. It tries to sink into her, a two-way link, and she pushes back against it, fights it with everything she has, and remembers: 

Ian and Barbara, their strength and their love. Ace, and the Brigadier, and Martha, and Kate and their bravery, their fierce protectiveness, their love. She thinks about Clara and Danny, dying for love. Thinks about Bill, finding love after death. She thinks about Rose and her happy life with another version of her, in love. Thinks of Amy and Rory and their undying love and Jenny and her love and Yaz and her love and Ryan and his love and Graham and Grace and their love and Susan and Mickey and Sarah Jane and all of their heart, their kindness, their generosity, their love. She thinks of Donna and her love, her mercy, of Davros, and mercy, and the Master, and mercy, the Cybermen, and mercy, the Daleks, and mercy. She fills her head and her hearts with every moment, every memory from her long, long life of love and mercy and kindness. 

She can feel the Daleks fighting back, feels them claw at her mind; part of her is aware the door behind her is caving in, but she needs more time. 

She thinks of Jack and Jackie and Adric and Romana and Wilfred and Nardole. She thinks of Astrid and Rita and Jabe and Nasreen and anyone and everyone she’s ever loved, who’s ever loved her, who’s ever loved anyone at all and pushes it all toward the Daleks. 

_Blew them up with love,_ she thinks, though she isn’t trying to kill them, not this time. Just trying to save them. Maybe that was the answer all along. 

And maybe it wasn’t. 

She isn’t sure, but she knows it’s getting harder and harder to fight, to prove to them that it’s worth it—all the pain and loss and suffering that comes with kindness. 

So she does what she knows she needs to, though she’s reluctant—desperate, almost, to keep her to herself, to share not a moment of their lives together; but she can’t think about love and not think about her, so she lets it spill over, all those times: 

America, and Leadworth, and Stormcage. She thinks of Asgard and Trenzalore and Elvis. She thinks of Sontarans and she laughs and thinks of the Library and she cries. She thinks of Darillium, and smiles so wide her face hurts more than the pain in her chest, her lungs. She thinks of 24 years and so, so much longer, nipping off in the TARDIS for adventures. She thinks of River’s smile and River’s warm hands and River’s skin. She thinks of River getting ready for bed, wrestling with her hair, River getting up in the mornings, grumpy as all hell. She thinks of dancing with River under so many stars, and catching her every time she jumped or fell. She thinks of _I hate you_ and _you’re standing right behind me_ and _loving the stars themselves_. She thinks of _not one line_ and _more than any living thing in the universe_ and _or you_ and _when one’s in love_ and _this is the reason above all I love him, my husband. My madman in a box. My Doctor._

She thinks of _next stop, everywhere,_ and behind her, the door comes down. 

She can hear them, the hiss, the almost questioned, _exterminate?_ that doesn’t sound so sure, and yet when she looks over her shoulder there’s a gun aimed at her chest and frantically, she tries to remember more, remember louder and more clearly and more lovingly because they’re almost there, almost, so close—

The Dalek aims, and the Doctor shuts her eyes. 

The gun goes off, and she waits for pain and failure and death. 

Instead, the Dalek groans, and the Doctor opens one eye, confused. 

“Really? An end of the world battle and you didn’t call me? I’m insulted, sweetie.” 

Her voice is a surge of oxygen, sunlight and joy. The Doctor can’t help the smile the splits her cheeks—there’s recognition in River’s voice, fondness and devotion and worry, always, but determination, too. 

“And what sort of time do you call this?” The Doctor echos, and River steps around the Dalek, holstering her weapon. 

“The nick of it, I’d say.” 

“As always,” the Doctor agrees, wants to pull her in close, but pain spikes through her head, and she can feel the Dalek’s fighting back. She hisses, turns her attention back to the mainframe and grits her teeth. 

River appears at her side in less than a second, a steadying hand on her arm. 

“What have you done?”

“Ah,” the Doctor says, wincing in anticipation of River’s ire. “About that.”

It only takes her wife a moment to figure it out, to realize what she’s doing, and River gasps. “You idiot! You’ll burn yourself up!”

The Doctor shrugs. “Last regeneration,” she says, half her focus on keeping the Daleks—all that anger, all that hate—at bay. “I’m dying anyway.”

“No, you’re not,” River snaps, “Let me do it.”

The Doctor glares. “Not a chance.”

“Doctor—” Her voice is desperate, terrified, and the Doctor tries to smile, to be kind. 

“No, really, River. I’m _dying._ Have been for weeks. I’m on borrowed time.”

River’s eyes flicker over her body, looking for wounds. She won’t be able to see it—the shot she took to the stomach, courtesy of a lone Dalek—but River reads her face, the calm acceptance, and knows. 

Still, she shakes her head. “It’s not too late. We can get you to hospital—”

“And leave all these people?”

“Yes,” River says, but she doesn’t sound so sure, and the Doctor smiles. 

“Liar.”

River makes a kind of desperate sound, one that tears through her. “There has to be something—”

The Doctor shakes her head. “There’s no stopping it, River, not this time. I’m sorry.”

It’s the apology, she thinks, more than anything else, that makes River break, her expression falling, bright tears in her eyes. 

“No,” she says, tightening her grip on the Doctor’s arm. “I can’t let you die.”

“River,” she says, so soft, and with her free hand, pulls her closer, their hips pressed together. She reaches up, and brushes a stray tear from River’s cheek with her thumb. “Where are we, then?”

River swallows. “Last time I saw you was the Bone Meadows.”

Her Eleventh self, she thinks, and remembers: River, still in prison, still learning. Himself, still trying to prove something to her, both of them right at the start of such wonderful falling. 

“You’ve got so much more to come,” she promises. 

River bites her lip, and a surge of affection flows through the Doctor at the sight. “We could have more now,” she tries, but the Doctor shakes her head, leans forward, and kisses River’s cheek. 

“Soon enough,” she promises, and River nods, and finally looks down at the wiring, the open Dalek wound the Doctor is currently hooked up to. 

“What can I do?” she asks, so brave, so kind. 

The Doctor doesn’t think about it, not for a moment. “Give us a kiss?”

River half laughs, but doesn’t hesitate, leans forward and slides her hand into the Doctor’s hair and kisses her, soft and salty and she’s trembling slightly, and the Doctor pulls her in tighter, curls her free hand around the back of River’s neck and opens her mouth, kisses her harder. 

River whimpers, hands clinging to the Doctor and she’s warm and soft and safe and alive, so so alive under the Doctor’s hands and she loves her, has loved her for centuries, millennia, will love her forever. 

She thinks of the screwdriver tucked safely in her pocket, the code she’d written, not two days ago, and prays that it works. 

Under her hands, River moans softly and the Doctor grins against her lips, nips at her gently, refuses to let go. If it’s her last chance, her last moments, this is where she wants to be, who she wants to be with. 

She supposes maybe the universe isn’t so terrible, after all. 

There’s a spark, and a surge that knocks them backwards, the Doctor’s hand, burnt and bloodied, flying from the console. 

“No,” she says, “no, no, no—”

“Doctor, look.”

She pauses, and follows River’s gaze out the large window to the planet below. Everything has stopped. The explosions. Even the ship is silent. And then, the crackle over the speakers, a familiar voice with a strange humility. 

“Mercy,” it says. Below, the Daleks start to withdraw. “We bring mercy.”

The Doctor laughs. It may not work for good, may not last long, but the Daleks are retreating, or turning to each other, to the people, and she can hear bits of questions, “How can we help you?” and “We mean no harm.”

“What happened?” River asks. “Are they—?”

“Good, now,” The Doctor says. “At least for a while. At least as good as I am.”

River smiles. “The best, then.”

“Only with you,” she answers softly, and River shakes her head. 

“Sentimental idiot.”

The Doctor makes to answer, but pain overwhelms her and her knees buckle. She hears River cry out, feels hands lower her gently, but she isn’t on the cold floor, where she though she’d be. River cradles her head in her lap, brushing her fingers through her hair. 

“Please, sweetie—”

The Doctor grips her hand and forces her eyes open, wants to see her one last time. 

“River.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

Her hearts break, and she reaches a shaky hand to River’s face, holds her cheek in her palm. “I need—I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“The TARDIS. Bury me in it, and leave her… on Trenzalore.”

“Trenzalore? Why—”

“Long story,” she says. “Has to be lived. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“You’ll be the only one… who can open it.”

“How?”

“Spoilers.”

River glares, but the Doctor smiles, even through the pain. With her free hand, she grips River’s tightly. 

“I can’t—” River shudders. “I can’t do this without you.”

The Doctor shakes her head. “You‘ll never have to. It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’ve got so much more to come. You and me, River. Time and space.” 

“Promise?” she whispers. 

“I promise.” The Doctor coughs, and it hurts so badly, but River is there, and she’s like sunlight through the dark. “Darillium.”

“What?”

“Make sure I take you,” she says breathlessly. “Don’t go without me.”

“I won’t.”

She feels one of her hearts give out, and draws in a ragged breath. “River.”

“I know,” she says, and there are tears on her cheeks as she cradles the Doctor close. “I know, sweetie.”

“Tired,” she manages, and forces her eyes open. “But happy.”

River exhales. “Only you would be happy to die.”

The Doctor shakes her head. “Happy you’re here. My wife.”

“Always.”

With all her strength, the Doctor curls her fingers in River’s hair and rugs her down gently. “You watch us run, love.”

The last thing she feels is River’s lips against her own, River’s hand in hers. 

—

Waiting for River is tedious at best. He’s got a new body now, such as it is, made up of lines and code. He needs glasses—well, not really, but he thinks they make him look rather distinguished—and he’s partial to suits. He takes care of Charlotte as best he can, but the mainframe is overwhelmed and even he can’t fix it from the inside. He knows it’s only a matter of time, however, and tries to be patient. 

He’s a bit better at it this go around, but the way time moves is agonizing, feels awful under his skin and he can’t quite grasp anything, any moment. The years tick by, or maybe it’s only hours, he isn’t sure, and then there’s a surge, and the computer feels like it’s rebooting or dying or maybe neither and then—

Everything calms. The itch under his skin goes away, replaced by an entirely new anticipation. 

He follows Charlotte outside to the courtyard, blue skies everywhere, green grass, and blessed stillness. 

She appears in white, which he can’t help but find a but humorous, a bit fitting. 

“The Doctor fixed the data core,” Charlotte says, and brings River her friends, which, while he’s happy for her, makes him just a tad jealous, for the way she recognizes them and hugs them close. 

He waits, answers their questions dutifully, gives them a tour of the mansion, explains how it works, now that they’re not quite alive, not quite dead. River keeps her eyes on him the whole time, something discerning, calculating in her gaze, but she’s a bit distracted, and he supposes that’s only fair. 

He waits until everyone disperses to find their rooms and settle in before he turns to her, forcing back a smile. “Professor Song, might I have a word?”

River nods, and follows him into the backyard—there are tables and chairs and beautiful bird baths and all kinds of quaint things he can’t wait to show her, doesn’t care about at all right now. 

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit overwhelmed,” she admits. “I never thought—though of course he would, that daft man.”

“Are you happy?”

He holds his breath as she blinks, looks startled by the question. 

“To be alive? Certainly.”

“To be here,” he amends, and tries not to shift his weight. 

River stares off into the distance for a long moment. “I could be, I suppose. It’s just—” She shakes her head, and gives him a wane smile. “I’ve never been fond of confined spaces. Staying in one place.” She shrugs. “I’ll get used to it.” 

The Doctor steels himself. “You seemed content enough on Darillium.” 

River’s neck snaps up and her gaze hardens, so suspicious, his wife. 

“How could you know about—”

He smiles. Soft and warm, and with every ounce of devotion he has in him. 

“Doctor?” Her voice cracks. “How can you be—”

“You didn’t really think I’d let you spend eternity without me?” he chides softly. “I’m much too selfish for that.”

River makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob and throws her arms around his neck. He nearly wilts, holding her so close, buries his face in her hair and breathes her in and she feels solid, feels warm and alive and real and part of him can’t believe it worked, it all worked, and they’re here and together and—

She slaps him, hard, and he grunts, and rubs at his cheek. “I suppose I deserved—” he starts, and then she’s kissing him, mindless of his new face, his new body made of code; mindless of anything or anyone around them. She kisses him fiercely, desperately, arms around his neck and he holds her so tight he’s afraid she might bruise. 

“My River,” he whispers against her lips when she finally parts to breathe. “My wife.”

“Doctor,” she murmurs. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be, dear?” he asks, and she shudders in his arms. “We’re alive.” 


End file.
